


Starts of Promises

by matskreider



Series: The Little Things [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angry Steve Rogers, Artist Steve Rogers, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Oral Fixation, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Recent relationship, Recovery, War Veteran Steve Rogers, hinted ptsd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-16
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-08-15 10:16:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8052481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matskreider/pseuds/matskreider
Summary: A recovering veteran, his artist boyfriend, and a promise take a walk in the park.





	Starts of Promises

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place prior to [The Little Things](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7453108), closer to when Bucky's beginning to readjust to civilian life. I would say this is probably about...a year? Two years? Ahead of that other fic. Slowly but surely I'm expanding on this little universe, haha. 
> 
> Couple quick things about timeline stuff:   
> \- Bucky's had his arm for roughly 6 months at this point. He's been seeing Sam for a little bit shorter than that time, probably around 5.5 months.  
> \- Bucky was a POW for about a year.  
> \- He's about 28 in this, making Steve about 27. 
> 
> I'm also not 100% versed in PTSD recovery or how that works, so I worked mostly off of how my own anxiety functions. Hopefully it's not entirely wrong!

The worn soles of his Doc Martins barely protect him from the impact of the stone steps. Adjusting the tan strap over his shoulder, Steve mentally shakes off the small aching sparks in his ankles, instead lengthening his stride. Autumn air flickered between the humidity of summer and the dryness of winter, and his lungs weren’t happy. (They never actually were.)

A quick drag from his inhaler reset them to their usual, shitty baseline, allowing him to pick up his momentum.

He rounds the corner, headphones continuing the Ted Talk he’d started that morning, ignoring the sounds of the city around him. Technically, he’s late, but for a good reason. The curator at the gallery had been interested in his pieces, and talk of letting him have the space in two months was beyond what he could have hoped. They hadn’t settled specifics, but the curator was impressed with Steve’s preparedness – and _willingness_ – to work within the deadline provided. _And_ the gallery was close to the Starbucks he’d been frequenting since he’d first looked into settling in DC.

No small part of moving from Brooklyn so far south was Bucky. After returning stateside, DC was the logical place to keep him. The government wanted a hand in what he’d seen and been through, what he could have given up during his time as a POW. Psychological evaluations, medical procedures, and endless tests, ensured that Bucky saw nothing more than white office after white office, in varying hospital beds. The knowledge that the Barnes family was nowhere to be found prompted Steve to extend his internship at the Smithsonian into the summer months, hoping to stay close to Bucky during his recovery.

A combination of sheer dumb luck and connections brought Tony Stark into the picture, and with it, a new arm and funds for Bucky. Steve knew that it was rough. Adjustment was hard. For the first four weeks of Bucky’s mandatory sessions with Sam, Steve honestly thought the man was making things worse for him.

Hell, he’d actually accused him of that to his face. After the fifth session, Bucky had come back to Steve’s apartment (now _theirs,_ if not formally) looking more haunted than Steve had seen before. Once making sure Bucky was safe – and asking his neighbor, Nat, to keep an eye out for any distress on Bucky’s part – the small blond had driven down to the VA to give Sam a piece of his mind.

Steve still remembered the patient way Sam had looked at him, listening to all his fear, anger, and frustration come pouring out of him in a way his emotions hadn’t since his mom had passed 10 years prior. He’d been hurt that Bucky wouldn’t open up to him, that their past seemed to be of no consequence now. That the nightmares and horrors he’d seen and witnessed kept him from even beginning the process of accepting that he was home now, things were safe. How sometimes he’d just stare at his prosthetic with an unreadable expression on his face, and sit there, frozen, for what seemed like an eternity.

After that, Sam had brought Steve into his office (since he hadn’t even gotten a word in edgewise before the little firecracker had gone off on him in the lobby) and then explained something that Steve took to heart.

_Recovery isn’t linear,_ he’d told him, _and sometimes you stumble backwards. But it doesn’t mean it’s not recovery._

After that, the three of them had grown closer together – Sam first as counselor then friend to Bucky, confidant and voice of reason to Steve. It was because of Sam that they were even together in the first place; Steve knew that. He owed a lot to the counselor, that much was certain.

Pulling himself out of the memories, Steve leans his shoulder into the glass door, swinging his way into the coffee scented establishment. The warm light relaxed him, and cobalt eyes surveyed the couches and tables before he found the figure he was looking for. He sat in the corner, back to the wall, reading a book. Gloves covered both his hands, but it was getting to be that kind of cold outside where such behavior was accepted by the general public.

Steve smiles to himself, biting his lower lip and chewing a bit absentmindedly as he approaches. Deft fingers pause the Ted Talk, interrupting a woman’s speech on power posing, and shove the white wires into his pocket. He shrugs his bag off, setting it gently on the floor. Bucky doesn’t make a noise to acknowledge his arrival, but Steve doesn’t push him to. Either the passage was just really good, or he was having one of those times where he just didn’t feel like talking.

Experience (and Sam) had taught Steve that the latter of the two was perfectly okay. He was ready to settle in to his own half of the couch, giving Bucky the comfort of his presence but space that he may have desired, but the bigger of the two draped his right arm over the back of the couch, letting it hang at the elbow.

Steve knew an invitation when he saw one.

He snuggles up closer to Bucky, resting his head on his chest, and feels the comforting weight of his arm come around to settle on his hips. A soft huff of breath precedes a gentle kiss to the top of his head, and Steve all but purrs at the affection. He’d already done his serious adulting for the day – now, he felt he was entitled to relax a bit with his boyfriend.

An empty cup sits on the wooden table next to Bucky’s discarded scarf, and Steve reaches over, spinning it until he could see the order. A chai latte, of course. He’s almost disappointed that Bucky didn’t do anything seasonal for his order, but the fact that Bucky was even outside the apartment and relaxed in public was victory enough for the day.

_Recovery is recovery,_ the blond thinks to himself as he digs his phone out of his pocket, pulling his headphones free.

Steve checks some emails and texts on his phone, while Bucky makes his way through the chapter. About ten minutes pass in companionable silence, before Bucky eventually closes the book, prompting Steve to look up at him. Their gazes meet, Steve blushing a bit and Bucky giving him a small, almost nervous smile.

He waits for Bucky to say something, but when he doesn’t, he takes the initiative.

“Good read?” he asks, voice low to both fit the sleepy atmosphere of the shop around them and to hopefully coax an answer out of Bucky.

The brunet squeezes his shoulder warmly, giving a small nod. “Good meeting?” he intones, the low baritone comforting to the blond.

“Yeah. We can talk more about it at home, if you want?” Steve offers, putting his hand over Bucky’s, lacing their fingers together. There’s a squeeze, one of thanks and understanding.

“We can get outta here, if you want. Don’t wanna go home just yet,” he murmurs.

Steve nods, sitting up and pushing his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose from where they’d shifted when he’d lain down. “Yeah, sure. Mind if I get a coffee first?” he asks, still sitting beside Bucky. If he wanted to head out now, they could. Anything to make Bucky comfortable.

But he shakes his head, strands of hair falling loose from the small bun at the nape of his neck. “Go get yourself something to drink, I’ll be here.”

Steve grins and kisses his cheek before standing, and making his way over to the counter.

* * *

The leaves are finally starting to change, warm autumnal colors filling the air and coating the sidewalks. Dried, brittle crunches satisfy the innate need within Steve to just _feel_ them, something he’s done since he was a kid. Bucky walks beside him, his right hand in Steve’s, the other tucked into his pocket. He doesn’t enjoy drawing more attention to his left hand than necessary, even though with it completely covered, it doesn’t seem any more different than a normal arm.

Steve talks; Bucky listens. The park is quiet, being midday in the middle of the weak. It’s not exactly tourist season, though a few photographers took advantage of the different colors for a newer look on DC. Steve followed the same route they always did – not the loop Bucky did with Sam, but a more picturesque one, more isolated.

Eventually they come to a stop on a bench overlooking a lake, trees in reds, golds, and greens all around both them and the body of water. Steve leans back against the worn wooden backing of the bench, looking out at how the sunlight plays with the water’s surface. His coffee was long since finished, and he hadn’t taken one of the green drink stoppers that made for excellent distraction, leaving him without anything to occupy his mouth. Out of habit, he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, worrying the red skin between sentences.

“…interested in giving me the space around December, maybe January.” He works at the right corner of his mouth, before resuming speaking. “Depends on what his schedule is and how many more pieces I can get accomplished in that time, though. Could end up sharing the space, if I don’t fill it myself.” Now the center, until little beads of blood began to crop up, soothed away by his tongue. “Not that I’d mind, everyone needs a chance, but the theme has to fit, yanno? And –”

He’s interrupted by the touch of a gloved hand to his lips, ceasing his talking and biting. Steve glares up at Bucky, but the veteran doesn’t seem perturbed by it. “Stevie, you’re bleeding.”

“Huh? Oh.” He shrugs, leaning out of Bucky’s palm. “It’s fine, it’ll stop.”

“Same stubborn lil punk, aren’tcha?” the elder of the two admonishes, before looking out at the water, not meeting Steve’s gaze. The sudden switch in mood intrigues Steve, but leaves him wondering if he’s done something wrong.

“Yeah, you know how I am. …What’s up, Buck?”

The brunet doesn’t turn to look at him, just takes a steadying breath. He doesn’t give any clues that he’s going to answer the question, and maybe it was just one of those questions without any answers, other than _everything_ or _nothing._ Steve’s ready to let the matter drop, but Bucky begins to speak, his voice soft, betraying the nerves Steve had picked up on from earlier.

“When Sam told me about you going down there to him, just…yellin’ and cursin’ his name, I was pissed. Told him that he should have sent you home, that you shoulda said all that to me. I thought he was fighting my battles, and I didn’t want that.”

Steve wants to correct him – say that no one could fight Bucky’s battles for him, because he never told anyone what those battles were. Besides, Sam had been perfectly civil during their first meeting – it had been Steve who had flown off the handle like some kind of overprotective boyfriend.

Which, he sort-of figured that he was, but at the time, he and Bucky were too busy dancing around feelings they’d had since freshman year of high school to even consider the implications of such a display from the blond.

“But then he asked me if I coulda handled it if you had said all that shit to me, to my face. Especially after that meeting. I knew I wouldn’t have been able to, but I wanted to…to say I could, yanno? I wanted to believe that I could still handle you and your inability to let anything sit for too damn long and I just, wanted things to get back to how they used to be.” His voice is quiet, but he presses onward, ignoring the tremble of emotion lurking in the vowels and consonants.

“So then, I made a promise to myself – and to Sam – that I’d try to open up to you more. And I…I’d like to think I have…?”

He trails off, leaving the statement sounding like a question, and Steve nods in agreement, knowing Bucky’s peripheral vision would pick up the movement. The artist reaches over, gently putting his hand on Bucky’s forearm. “You’ve done great at that, Buck. I know it’s not easy, but you’ve been doing just fine,” he soothes.

Bucky pauses at the words, but it doesn’t fully relax him. “Thanks, Steve. Look I’m just…I’m just gonna…here.” With naught but that awkward little preamble, Bucky withdraws his left hand from his pocket for the first time that afternoon, dropping a chain onto Steve’s lap. Two dog tags look up at him, the scratched metal meticulously cleaned.

“Buck…I don’t know what to say…” The enormity of the gift isn’t lost on him, and Steve picks them up with a reverence reserved for absolution. The chain curls into his palm, snakelike, as if Steve were only the chosen location to sun itself that day.

“I got a lot of memories attached to these, Stevie,” Bucky whispers, finally looking down at him. “A lot of bad, nasty shit. I want to attach some good ones to them. It’s not, like…this isn’t a _proposal_ , or anything, but…”

“It’s a promise.” The certainty in Steve’s voice, undermined by a wheeze, shifted Bucky’s look from cautious to fearful concern.

“Only if you want, I just…Steve, can you breathe? Focus on me, okay? Please?” A warm hand – his right hand – reaches out, and settles on Steve’s chest, as if he could correct the breathing through touch alone.

Shaking, Steve grabs onto his wrist, and then onto his left hand, forcing their fingers to entwine, pulling him closer. “Yeah, I can…I can breathe.” It takes a few purposeful breaths, but he gets himself more or less under control. “It’s just…Buck, this means so much. Of course you know that, you’re the one who went through with it, but…”

“I love you, Steve. And I know, it’s not easy all the time. Hell, most of the time. It’s hard. But you’ve stuck by me, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Steve pulls Bucky down against him for a hungry kiss, silencing any further sentiments. It’s not exactly appropriate behavior for such a public space, but with his left hand on the back of Bucky’s neck, and his right hand keeping Bucky from pulling away, Steve doesn’t care.

He feels like everything’s slotting into place, his life finally taking the shape he’d always wanted – delayed, but no less beautiful. He crawls into Bucky’s lap, tongue licking against Bucky’s lower lip, coaxing him into the kiss. A small groan echoes between the two of them, and each thinks the other made it. But just as Bucky leans in, his left hand settling on Steve’s lower back and pressing him in close, Steve pulls back a bit, resting his forehead against the veteran’s.

“I love you too, Buck. And I know what this means to you…but please know what it means to me too.”

Two sets of blue eyes are wet with tears, from happiness and relief and promises of futures to come.

“I’d like to think I do,” the elder whispers, closing his eyes and leaning into Steve’s embrace, settling onto his shoulder, nose against Steve’s throat. His left hand tightens against the back of Steve’s coat, holding him as tight as he dared. “I love you…so much, sweetheart. So damn much.”

“I know you do, I know. You show me, every day,” Steve murmurs, running his fingers through Bucky’s hair. He looks down at his right hand, the dog tags still curled up in his palm. He holds the chain in his teeth, slipping his hand into the opening, before gently looping them over his head. Bucky adjusts how he’s laying for a moment, letting the chain settle against Steve’s prominent collarbones.

When Steve looks down, he catches Bucky looking up at him, those iced baby blues warm with love, and tenderness, and _hope._ Now it’s Steve that leans down to press a kiss to Bucky’s temple, before brushing his lips against the shell of Bucky’s ear, whispering an invitation he knew he couldn’t refuse.

“Why don’t we go home, and I can show you just how much I love you, hmm?” Not many people would guess upon first glance the things Steve could get Bucky to do for him with a careful tone of voice, but the list was fairly long. The blond chuckles at the sharp inhale from his lover, followed by a not-at-all subtle squeeze to Steve’s ass.

“Lead the way, Rogers,” he says, voice a touch deeper than normal.

Steve smirks, sliding off of Bucky’s lap like nothing out of the ordinary had transpired, grabbing his bag from the ground. The dog tags sit proudly against his chest, little flashes of silver as he moves. He reaches out for Bucky to take his hand.

The brunet does as he stands, but with surprising force he’s pulled down into another, breath stealing kiss from the artist. In his daze, he’s even easier to lead.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So! I might do a follow up immediately for this one, because quite frankly, I need to dust off my smut writing abilities. However, if you don't wanna read that, it's all good! I'll most likely make it it's own fic but set it in the collection. If that's something you ARE interested in tho....be on the lookout for that. 
> 
> Also comments/reviews give me life, so...hmu down in that comment box, aye? 
> 
> [Follow me on tumblr too!](vampyrebucky.tumblr.com)


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